Jump
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: Yuffie's traditional attire: crop top and shorts. Vincent's traditional attire: cape and jumpsuit. Guess which outfit is harder to take off? Follows the last moments of Vincent's main garment before its death by shuriken. M for language and sexual content, most of which is implied. Pre-established Vincent/Yuffie. I do not own Final Fantasy VII or the cover art!


_Hang in there, AlexTheOtaku!  
_

 _I apologize in advance for any OOCness, but ever since realizing that Vincent's outfit was actually a jumpsuit, I've had this scene in my head and I had to get it out._

* * *

Tonight isn't the first night Yuffie has tortured Vincent like this.

Well, technically speaking, she's not really doing anything wrong. It's not her fault he's so sensitive; just a little pressure in the right place at the right time, and he's about ready to jump out of his skin. Or, more accurately, he's ready to jump out of his clothes. The problem is, _he can't do that_.

Jumpsuits, contrary to what their name unintentionally implies, are not exactly easy to remove on short notice. It's not all the design, either; Vincent is sure that if he were able to think straight, he would be out of it within the minute—or, more likely, even sooner. But as it is, his blood is… indisposed: he doesn't have the bandwidth, or the patience, to consider the complexities of his own clasps.

Not when Yuffie is already naked and moving without any regard for the layers of fabric between them. You'd think he'd learn by now not to accept her midnight invitations, but he grudgingly supposes a part of him doesn't really want her to stop. (Okay, maybe _most_ of him.)

…This is beginning to hurt.

" _Fuck_ , Yuffie," he growls, in a rare moment of profanity, and her hips grind to a halt atop his as she tilts her head slightly in coy confusion. He swallows another curse at the expression, unable to prevent himself from stuttering the last couple words, which come out like a plea: "G-get off."

She only sits up straight and smirks, running a hand through her hair. "I'm trying," she giggles, and Vincent lets out a hiss through clenched teeth as she starts moving again—more slowly and deliberately this time, clearly waiting for him to decide what he wants to do. (Which isn't getting any easier, by the way, given what she's _doing_ to him.)

"Selfish," croaks Vincent, gripping the bedpost; at least _that_ will support him, unlike his unruly lover. "You could just do this to your _self_ …" Half of the last word is gasped as Yuffie leans forward to brush his hair aside and tenderly kiss his neck, which he unconsciously bares for her.

"Don't worry," promises Yuffie in a low and slightly hoarse voice, and he can feel her seductive smile against his skin. "I'll make this worth your while as soon as you let me." Vincent can't suppress an involuntary vocalization, his mind torn between succumbing to blissful oblivion… and freedom from oppressive garments.

Vincent grits his teeth as Yuffie starts rubbing against him again, keeping a wicked eye on his doubtless pained expression. "Do you want me to beg?" he snaps, hot-blooded in more senses than one. He's getting desperate at this point; being inside her is no longer a mere desire, but a necessity.

"Beg for what?" asks Yuffie, laughing, and crosses her arms over her charmingly small breasts. "They're _your_ clothes," she adds: Vincent sits up uncomfortably and slides out from under her, pushing her down and holding her there with thankfully ungloved hands. (Really, the jumpsuit was the only variable left unaccounted for.)

"Oh, this is _so_ much better," giggles Yuffie teasingly, squirming underneath him—dark eyes alight with mischief as he hesitates, trying unsuccessfully to figure out his course of action. "Are you just gonna stare at me till you cum?" she continues playfully, raising a hand to caress his face. "Now who's the selfish one?"

Vincent sits up again with a somewhat exaggerated sigh, barely suppressing a smile as he fumbles with his many… _many_ … buckles and zippers, several of which may or may not actually have a function. "Are _you_ going to watch me fail till you fall asleep?" asks Vincent pointedly, after a suitably excruciating pause. "Help me, if you're so impatient."

But Yuffie only smiles, trails a fingernail from his throat to— _ah_ , squeezes gently, gets up… and walks away, not even bothering to close the door behind her. (Vincent takes a moment to thank Gaia that her father is elsewhere on business.)

"Not again," mutters Vincent, dropping his arms to his sides and staring at the ceiling. It's not the first time Yuffie's walked out on him, but some sort of an argument always prefaced her absence. She never left out of the blue like this—especially not after such an overt display of affection.

But Vincent can't think about why she's gone when his body remembers her touch so vividly. If he wants any kind of satisfaction, he supposes he's just going to have to imagine what might have been between them. But that still involves getting out of this ridiculous outfit, and he's no better equipped to deal with this situation. (If anything, he's in worse shape than before.)

Closing his eyes, Vincent doesn't notice Yuffie's return until she laughs softly, and he opens them again—pleasantly astonished—to find that she sits before him, proffering her shuriken. "Here," she tells him, and he takes it uncertainly, turning it over in his slightly sweaty hand. "The solution."

It dawns on him suddenly. " _Oh_ no," he growls, setting her weapon aside. "I'm _not_ going to… to…" He forgets what he was not going to do as Yuffie raises her eyebrows and makes a suggestive motion with her mouth, then leans back onto her hands, letting his eyes have their fill of her.

 _It's your choice_ , her eyes seem to say, but Vincent knows that's not the case at all. He takes a deep breath, more than just his heart throbbing desperately, and—before he can consider the consequences—takes her shuriken and tears open his jumpsuit, careful not to cut himself.

It takes him all of ten seconds to disentangle himself from the last remnants of torn fabric. Yuffie smiles at him one more, her eyes lingering hungrily on his everything… but he smirks and ensures that she doesn't have much time to stare. It's time for the other senses to take charge—this time with more payoff.

* * *

Yuffie does make good on her word, but just _try_ to get Vincent to admit it.

As they lie together drowsily, overlapping in places, he at last has time to think of what exactly he's done—observing through half-closed eyes the pile of sorry black rags on the floor. May his jumpsuit rest in peace. "You owe me a new outfit," he mumbles.

Yuffie doesn't respond, and he thinks she might be asleep until he nudges her and she says sleepily, "I didn't force you," and giggles quietly, making herself more comfortable amid her rumpled sheets. "Besides," she continues, closed-eyed and smiling, "I like you without clothes just fine."

"I _can't_ walk out of here stark naked, Yuffie," retorts Vincent, trying his utmost to be angry with her, but ends up laughing… and (jokingly) trying to smother her with a pillow. She returns the favor at first, but they're too tired to continue; she makes him swear up and down he'll let them pick up where they left off in the morning, and falls asleep.

Vincent closes his eyes, smiling faintly. No, this is certainly not the first time Yuffie's done this kind of thing. And he can't say with any kind of certainty that he wants it to be the last.


End file.
